Moon Over Parma
by X Amount Of Words
Summary: As if the strobe lights, cigarette smoke, pounding bass, and the temptation of alcohol weren’t enough to send Ranka into a dizzy state, the man entering the club certainly didn’t help. [YuzuruRanka, TamakiHaruhi, AU. Almost crack. Multichaptered.]


Ouran isn't mine, I Love My Sex by Benny Benassi isn't mine. Beta'd by Sciathan File.

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As if the strobe lights, cigarette smoke, pounding bass, and the temptation of alcohol weren't enough to send Ranka into a dizzy state, the man entering the club certainly didn't help.

And he certainly _looked_ rich, what with his Leonard Logsdail suit adorning his body. Ranka had always wanted one himself. Oh, what it would be like to have such well-made clothes filling his closet.

…Wonderfully expensive furniture and the most enjoyable food on the table in his living room...Guilt-tripping Haruhi into wearing pretty, rich things... (_"I spend all this money and you won't even wear it for a picture? Oh, Haru, it makes Daddy think you no longer love him if you won't even touch it! I don't have to buy such beautiful things, you know, I only do it for you!"_)

And the house… The house would be gorgeous — a big spacious house that wasn't so cramped that it didn't feel like a home as much as it did a rat cage. It would a big, beautiful brick mansion with marble pillars and bay windows with cushioned seats and the kitchen would be up-to-date (and whenever an appliance broke, they could just buy a new one,) the living room would have high ceilings, a fireplace, a kotatsu, and everything else Haruhi would need to stay comfortable and warm for all the cold, late-night studying and any other occasion or time…it would all be perfect.

Content with his concretely defined fantasies, he sighed.

His daydreaming had a cost though, he realized, sitting on the stage's floor, legs wrapped loosely around the pole. He and his current customer exchanged almost identical looks, a mixture of blankness and shock plastered on both their faces. Ranka did note the trace of disappointment on the other man's face however.

This time, he sighed a little less happily and stared the man straight in the eye. "It's part of the act."

"W-Which part?" The customer replied, assuming that his dancer was beginning to flirt with him.

"Orgasm: The Seconds After." Ranka muttered, standing to reclaim his ever-present dignity and to continue his dance so he didn't have to listen to the man seated below him reply. Also, partly to see if he could see Mr. Rich again, but he'd keep that to himself and try to make his man safari subtle.

Luckily, he didn't search for long as the assumed businessman was at the bar. Coming out of a back bend, he dismounted, tucking his legs between his torso and the pole and flipping his lower half over his head. Fortunately, he landed his difficult stunt with a thud, both stilettos somehow on the ground.

As he began to walk away, the _other_ businessman below who was obviously not fully devoted to his wife and three kids understood what was happening and shot him a pitiful look. "I paid for fifteen minutes! It's only been seven!"

Ranka winked, index finger pointed near his chin. "Consider this an intermission, hmm?"

And with that, the cross dresser trotted off the stage with experienced ease and brushed past the very confused 35 year-old, who, unknown to the both of them, was destined to be unintentionally taken advantage of.

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Pushing through the crowd wasn't the hard part, he'd done it so many times before, but trying to find the elusive Mr. Rich was difficult. Whenever Ranka's targets were locked, the man would move to another part of the bar, therefore causing the cross dresser to go after him through the wave of people. Again.

After the fifth time, he finally reached him, tripping into the counter. Not to say he didn't do it _gracefully_, everything he did was graceful, it was just that it was due to some careless dancer who had smacked him in the back of his head. And that, unfortunately, wasn't graceful.

The boss and bartender, with his back turned, must have hypothesized what had happened due to the loud "thunk" that signaled Ranka's fall because his shoulders were shaking, an obvious sign he was trying not to laugh.

With gritted teeth, Ranka threw his voice towards his supervisor. "Shut it, old man."

Mr. Rich had obviously noticed because he was soon staring at him.

And, well, his posture wasn't exactly graceful either. His hands were dangling over the other side of the counter, his hips flush against the overhanging edge, and his upper half suction cupped to the top — or at least it felt that way. He was certainly weighed down by embarrassment and didn't feel like getting up any time soon.

"Yeah…" He sighed, eyes half-lidded. "I'll have a Mojito, Takeshi."

"Coming right up, Ryoji!"

"Hey, it's _Ranka_ here!" He shouted, drawing a bit more attention to himself than he had intended. Great, more people staring at his immobile self. Maybe he should get up, save himself some dignity. But then again, maybe the pathetic act was giving him some points, but he doubted it. Maybe the "dapper gentleman" would donate to the "Save Ranka!" fund? Pfft.

"Yeah, and my name is Pamela. Nice to meet you. Do you want a lime?"

"No way, they're gross."

"Don't you realize that a Mojito _is _somewhat lime flavored?"

Ranka heard a snort and peered toward the direction from which it came, through the corner of his eye — it was his desire!

His jaw dropped a little more than intended — a little more being a lot. Was it good? Was it bad? Would the man say something or just laugh at him without saying another word, allowing him to spend the rest of days wondering just what the reaction's "charge" was? Positive? Negative? Certainly negative, that was obvious—

"Ryoji, was it?" The man smiled and Ranka concluded that hearing his name in such an attractive chuckle was…well, attractive.

"Yeah."

Suddenly, he had enough strength to stand up like he normally would — _gracefully_ and full of confidence (he had no idea how many times he had to reassure himself that he _was_ that night) though his reply completely lacked either.

The brunette with graying hairs stuck out his weathered hand — after so many years in a gay bar, you begin to pick up the little details of someone's life such as the masked writing calluses — and grinned as if he were a teenager. "I'm Yuzuru Suoh."

Yuzuru was obviously wealthy and wasn't a worker, he was the leader, the alpha male. The calluses didn't vary in size or places so chances were that he didn't switch pen positions much — most likely, he only signed his signature. A lot. And his hair was perfect styled. He had a stylist. It was obvious. What a lucky man. Oh, to live in that world!

…He did smell like oranges though. That was odd.

Ranka took it gingerly because he was certainly dreaming and at that precise moment would be the time when he woke up just like any other good dream, so he decided that he would not firmly grasp it because then he'd have the feeling linger and wonder what would happen if they were to meet somewhere that was a little more like reality and little less like sex and booze.

Hmm, he really was rather pessimistic, he thought. He was almost surprised that he didn't buy books only to read the last page first so if he were to die, he would know how it would end.

But to Ranka's surprise, as Yuzuru shook his hand with a smile, he didn't wake up.

There was no alarm buzzing in the background, no breakfast smells invading his senses, no hazy vision that mixed Yuzuru and his bedroom wall together, no Haruhi shouting at him to get up — there was nothing except the pulsing beat of "And I Love My Sex."


End file.
